


Deep Sea Diving

by AidaRonan



Series: Deep Sea Diving [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Amputee Bucky Barnes, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Author is fat, Banter, Bi disaster Steve Rogers, Blow Jobs, Come Eating, Comedy, Creampie, Dirty Talk, Fat Bucky, M/M, Rimming, Shrunkyclunks, fashionista Bucky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-10
Updated: 2020-01-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:47:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22194274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AidaRonan/pseuds/AidaRonan
Summary: Steve's wallowing in heat-related misery under a shade tree in Central Park when a man walks by in bright red booty shorts and a crop top. RIP Steve Rogers. It was nice knowing you.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Series: Deep Sea Diving [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1633489
Comments: 87
Kudos: 826





	Deep Sea Diving

In the winter of ‘35, New York City had received over 18 inches of snow. Storms that winter had stretched from the Gulf Coast all the way up to Maine, and the little radiator in the tenement Steve had shared with his mother hadn’t been able to keep up with the wind violently pushing its way through every crack and crevice in the building.

He had crawled into bed with her that night like a boy, piled under all their blankets to keep the cold at bay. Even still, he’d spent the whole night shivering. And he’d wished, several times, that he’d never ever be cold again.

Less than a decade later, he’d taken Abraham Erskine’s serum and let Howard Stark shoot him full of gamma radiation. It had transformed his metabolism, turning him into a person who always ran hot. In a way, he’d gotten those half-serious wishes made in a freezing Brooklyn apartment.

But, as the saying goes, be careful what you wish for and all that.

The temperature in New York City on July 18, 2013 hit 97 degrees, with the humidity pushing the heat index up over a hundred. It was miserable for ordinary people skirting the boundaries of their office dress codes or public decency laws.  
  
But Steve.  
  
“What are the kids saying these days?” Steve asked. “This fucking blows.”

Natasha laughed, lounging next to him on the grass under a tree in Central Park. It was the only shade tree not populated by numerous other people trying to escape the heat, probably because even a Natalia Romanova in little white sailor-style shorts and a red tank top plus a matching sun hat still exuded don’t-fuck-with-me energy.  
  
“Are you allowed to use that kind of language, old man?”

“You think we didn’t say fuck in the 30s, Romanoff? We fucking perfected it.”

She laughed again. “Speaking of fucking...”  
  
“No.” Steve used the bottom of his shirt to wipe sweat off his forehead while he watched a brown-skinned Latino man walk by. And by walk, he definitely meant trudge. The man was trudging in dress slacks and a white button-up that had probably looked great that morning but was now ruffled and damp under his arms and down his back. He carried a blazer too, holding it awkwardly so that no part of it touched more of him than it had to. Anything to avoid adding more misery to an already miserable day.

“I’m just saying that Karen in records makes eyes at you every t-”

“Karen in records has a confederate flag keychain despite the fact that she was born and raised in Rochester.” A group of kids floated by with snow cones dripping syrup down their hands. Steve would very much have liked a snow cone. But the snow cones were not under his shade tree. He would have to go back out there. Under the blazing sun that had now become his arch nemesis.

Aliens? Hydra? No, Captain America’s real foe was Sol and he _would_ shield whip him in the face someday in one of New York’s few remaining alleys, mark his words.

“I didn’t say you had to marry her, Rogers.”

“You know, we had a motto back during the war,” Steve said. “Never stick your dick in Nazi.”

Natasha lowered her large white-rimmed sunglasses just to blink at him, then set them back into place. “Okay then. How about Denice in IT? I saw her check out your butt on the sly last Wed-”

“She’s married.”

“Steven, are you familiar with the concept of a ‘hall pass?’”

“Natasha.”

Natasha sighed. “Fine. Single non-Nazis only. Got it.”

She kept rambling after that, listing off potential women Steve might like to take to dinner or dancing or his bedroom. But Steve wasn’t listening anymore. Nor was he paying attention to the bead of sweat running from his hairline into the collar of his too-tight Under Armour tee.

His eyes, instead, were on the man casually walking—no, not walking— _strutting_ down the sidewalk in bright red booty shorts and a cropped white tank. His body was soft, with large thighs, a round belly, and a small ring of fat visible over the waistband of the tight, tight shorts. He had collar-length dark hair pulled up into a bun, with a few loose wisps framing a pair of large bejeweled sunglasses. One of his arms was a prosthetic that looked to be made of some kind of black carbide. The other hand held a sweating strawberry frap, the straw of which the man was sucking on.

Really, really sucking. It bordered on lewd the way his tongue and lips curled around it. Steve couldn’t stop watching. Even more so when the man actually passed by, the shorts just barely covering the generously large, jiggling globes of his ass, upon which were written the words “thirst trap” in loopy white letters.

“...healthy to only have coworkers, Rogers. Rogers?”

“Huh?” Steve’s voice cracked. The _betrayal_. Natasha sat up instantly, her eyes locking on Thirst Trap before Steve could tear his gaze away.

“Wait, is that why you won’t go out with any of the women I’ve suggested?”

“What?” Another crack. Steve was going to punch his own voice box in the face. His brain caught up. “No. I’m- I like women.”

“But not only women?” Natasha asked. “Why didn’t you say?”

“Wasn’t exactly something you talked about when I come from, Romanoff.”

“Fair. You gonna go talk to him?”

“What? No!”

“And why not exactly?” Natasha asked.

“Because he’s. I’m. There’s.” Steve gestured wildly in his direction, as though that would somehow make the jumble of exclamation points in his head materialize into actual coherent thoughts.

“Of course. Perfectly reasonable.” Natasha nodded. “I guess you could lose him in a city of millions of people, think about him for weeks, consider asking me to track him down for you, and then decide to just never see him again because that would be an ‘invasion of privacy’ and ‘he’s a private citizen, Romanoff.’”

She was air quoting. Steve was being air quoted at.

“I…”

“He’s sitting down under that tree over there,” Natasha said casually. “I’m not saying you should consider a change of scenery, but I’m sick of looking at you and I have at least three weapons on me right now. The heat really puts me in a mood. Who knows what I’ll do?”

Steve looked between her and Thirst Trap once, then again. Then he took a deep breath.

Okay, Steve, you’re Captain America. You survived the Great Depression and Red Skull. You can do this, pal. Talk to a boy. A very hot boy in very short shorts is a lot less intimidating than terrifying financial uncertainty and the world’s worst Halloween decoration.

He stood up and then his feet just… wouldn’t move.

Fuck.

Okay, Steve, seriously. Captain America. Fought aliens. Didn’t die after crashing into the arctic ocean. Just chatting up a boy.

He forced one foot forward, squared his shoulders, and then walked very determinedly toward the other tree.

By the time he got there, he wanted to die. Which meant that instead of the very cool and casual, “hello” that he’d been rehearsing the entire way, it was more of an inelegant flop into the grass and an “ugh.”

“Mood,” Thirst Trap said, and then he wrapped his mouth around his straw again, and if it hadn’t been so hot out that Steve wished he could go back in the ice—not for seventy years this time, just for like seven hours or so—he probably would’ve been dealing with a pretty inopportune boner.

Instead he made himself take his eyes off of Thirst Trap’s mouth before it got too obvious that he wanted to do very untoward things to it in the privacy of a bedroom with an industrial air conditioner. Or maybe a walk-in freezer.

“Steve,” Steve said. Because he was a disaster at the best of times, but he was a special kind of idiot when his asscrack felt like the hot breath of a too-close stranger on the subway.

“No?”

“No, me.” Steve pointed at himself.

“You’re Steve?” Thirst Trap asked, raising an eyebrow that just barely peeked out from above his sparkling sunglasses.

“Ugh,” Steve said in lieu of a response.

“Steve it is. I’m Bucky.”

Bucky. _Bucky_. Bucky. That which a rose by any other name would look as goddamned hot fellating a coffee beverage.

“Hold up. Steve.” Bucky squinted at him, then pushed his sunglasses up onto his head and squinted at him some more. “Ah, I see.”

“Is this the part where you’ve just figured out I’m _that_ Steve?”

“Do you wanna be that Steve?” Bucky asked.

“Will it impress you more or less if I am?”

“Oh, is that what this little display of you flopping around in the grass was meant to be? Flirting?”

“I never said I was any good at it.”

Bucky threw his head back and laughed with his whole body, both sets of teeth showing and his pretty blue eyes crinkling at the corners. Then he looked at Steve, really looked at him. Unguarded and without any attempt at subtlety.

“You could pick me up, couldn’t you?” Bucky asked, and Steve could answer that one easily.

“I know I can lift about a thousand pounds,” Steve said. “Haven’t really pushed the limits. I could push them though if you wanted. If you wanted to watch me lift stuff. Is that a thing people are into?”

Bucky’s eyebrows migrated toward his hairline again, and he looked like he was on the verge of laughing.

“Wow, you really are bad at this.”

“I’m blaming the heat. I’m at least 10 percent smoother with air conditioning. I don’t even know why I’m outside. I have a lovely air conditioned apartment that- oh, right. Tony.”

“You’re outside because of Tony? Tony Stark?”

“It’s that or I throw him off a balcony in his own building. I’ve gotta go apartment hunting and then have Romanoff help me keep it off the grid so that he can’t stop by. Ever.”

“That bad huh?”

“He’s… a lot when he’s working on a project. Which is most of the time.” Steve shook his head. Great. Now he was rambling about Tony. A+ flirting, Steve. 10/10. They’ll write self-help books about this someday. “Why are you out here?”

“Ah,” Bucky said. “I live in one of those blessed old apartments that doesn’t even have air conditioning, and there was someone in every available inch of the coffee shop. And the bookstore. And McDonald’s.”

“I could get a hotel room,” Steve blurted, immediately screwing up his face in a cringe. “That- I don’t mean- We don’t have to- Not that I- Look, I’ll get up and leave right now if you want me to.”

Bucky pressed his lips together, but a tiny snort still escaped his nose.

“What? You don’t want me to meet Tony?” Bucky asked, polishing off the last of his frap with a loud slurp. He bobbed his head, moving the straw with his lips to really get the dregs stuck in the tiny lip in the bottom of the cup. And okay, did he realize what he was doing? Did he want Steve to pass out?  
  
Would the serum even let Steve pass out from whatever combination of lust and overheating he was working on at the moment? Much to consider, scientifically speaking.

“No, _you_ don’t want you to meet Tony,” he said, a little too late. “Not without ample preparation and maybe alcohol.”

“Are you rich?” Bucky asked. “Not a gold digger or anything. Just wondering if a hotel room would be pocket change or if it would actually put you out before I decide on an answer.”

“I’m comfortable,” Steve said, because he’d given a good chunk of his disgusting accumulated wealth away, but he did hold onto enough to not have to worry (and for moments like this). “It wouldn’t hurt me.”

“Can I actually sleep there?” Bucky asked. “To be totally open and blunt because I don’t think there’s any shame in sex or wanting to have it, I want to have sex with you. Hard. Not that I don’t reserve the right to change my mind later either. But I’d also like to sleep in a room below eighty degrees tonight.”

“Christ, yeah. Nothing worse than trying to sleep when you’re hot.”

“Then yes, Steve. You can get us a hotel room.”

It took a few calls, mostly to Pepper because Steve trusted her advice and he wanted to be a hundred percent sure that working air conditioner meant actually working. As in crisp, cool air. Not just a little circulation and slightly cooler temperatures than outside. Also, he wanted a pool.

“I’ll meet you there,” Bucky said, trading phone numbers with him first. “I need a few things.”

Steve didn’t ask questions. All he said was, “If you want me to send a car so you don’t have to hoof it in this bullshit, just call, or I guess text. It wouldn’t cost me anything at all, uh, if that’s important.”

From there, Steve went to the hotel to check in and to take a very long, very cool shower after sending Bucky the room number and leaving a key for him at the desk.

Bucky was there by the time he got out, lounging on one of the two beds. He turned and watched Steve walk out of the bathroom, his eyes following a drop of water when it ran between Steve’s pectorals and down his abs.

“Jesus, you’re some Greek asshole’s wet dream.”

“You changed,” Steve said. The short shorts and crop top were gone, replaced by regular cotton shorts and a plain gray tee.

“I didn’t know what kind of hotel it would be,” Bucky said. “I brought something similar for after I grab a shower though. If you were feeling that ensemble.”

“I was, uh, feeling it,” Steve said. “But like my ma always said, the wrapping doesn’t change the present.”

“Well, what do ya know? You really are smoother in air conditioning.”

Steve grinned. “Take all the time you need to get comfortable. I’m just gonna enjoy the clean sheets and whatever’s on TV.”

Bucky picked up his duffle, kissed Steve on his still damp cheek, and disappeared into the bathroom.

Steve didn’t bother getting dressed. He’d slipped into a store on the way for supplies and fresh underwear, and he went as far as to slide on a pair of boxer briefs. Draping the damp towel over the back of the desk chair, he plopped onto the bed closest to the window and found something tolerable on television.

“Are you watching a dog show?” Bucky asked, and Steve really did intend to answer when he looked over, but the second his eyes landed on Bucky, he forgot every human language he’d ever learned.

“Fuck.” Okay, _most_ of all of the human languages he’d ever learned.

The shorts Bucky had on post-shower were a bright aquamarine blue with yellow stripes down the sides. His cropped tank was thin and white, and Steve could just make out one of his hair-framed nipples despite the blue and yellow “Shameless Slut” printed right across his chest. The worst though were the thigh high yellow-striped athletic socks stretched around his ample thighs.

No, wait, scratch that. The worst was Bucky’s hair, down around his face and dripping water onto the tank. His hair had waves. _Waves_. Steve was fucking powerless.

He sucked in a breath that sounded more like a wheeze.

“Steve?” Bucky bit his lip.

Steve tore his eyes away just to regain consciousness. On the screen, a golden retriever trotted through an obstacle course looking proud of herself.

“Yeah, it’s dog.” Eloquent.

“You should turn it,” Bucky said, crawling onto the bed next to Steve. He’d taken the prosthetic off before or after the shower, his left arm ending a little before his elbow. He had a tattoo there near the scar tissue, looping black letters that Steve couldn’t quite read. Maybe he wasn’t supposed to. He focused on Bucky’s thighs again, on the ends of the socks and how badly he wanted those legs around him.

“Oh?” Steve’s voice cracked for the third time that day. He was going to sue as soon as he could find a lawyer willing to take a case from a man pursuing litigation against his own body parts.

“I can’t suck someone’s dick with dogs on TV. They’re too pure.”

Steve turned the TV off entirely. Even if he found something acceptable to fuck to, the commercials couldn’t be trusted. There might be a Folger’s ad, and then where would they be?

“That works,” Bucky said, and Steve glanced at him, then looked away again, catching sight of them both in the big mirror on the wall, and oh no. The shorts were shorter than the ones from earlier. From the front, Steve hadn’t been able to see the way that they cut across Bucky’s ass in an immensely flattering V.  
  
Steve definitely did not jizz himself, but it was a close thing.

“Steve,” Bucky said. “You know you’re allowed to touch me, right? This is the part where we have gross mutually pleasurable sex. Unless you don’t want to. You’re also allowed to change your mind, you know.”

“I wanna squeeze your ass.”

“I don’t wear these shorts for any other reason, pal,” Bucky said. “Okay, so I actually wear these shorts for lots of reasons, but I still recommend both hands for the full experience.”

“Far be it from me to argue with an expert.”

“Let me make it easier for you,” Bucky said, throwing one leg over Steve’s lap, his right hand wasting no time in caressing it’s way down Steve’s chest and abs. Steve, ever a polite host, reciprocated by touching Bucky with both hands as instructed, stroking down the half-bare skin of his back on the way. His imagination and reality did not at all compare. Bucky’s ass felt incredible in his hands when he squeezed it tight, running his fingertips up under the hem of the shorts to take twin handfuls of flesh unimpeded.

In response, Bucky—either a literal angel sent to make Steve’s life perfect, or the goddamned devil sent to end him and take his soul all in one glorious go—rocked his hips, grinding against Steve’s erection just enough to make him want and want and want.

“Bucky,” Steve said, and Bucky locked eyes on his. “I wanna go deep sea diving.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow.

“Steve, is that some old-timey word for fucking?”

“No, it’s- clean up the kitchen?” Steve asked, and Bucky shook his head, managing to look both horny and fond simultaneously. “Go down south?”

“Steve, are you trying to say you wanna eat my ass?”

Ah. So that’s how they did it in the new millennium.

“Yes,” Steve breathed.

“You want me to sit on your face?”

Bucky’s glorious ass. All over his face.

“Buck, I have never wanted a single thing more in my entire life.”

With a smirk, Bucky moved to dismount him and get off the bed.

“You can leave the shorts on,” Steve said. Bucky made a face in confusion but didn’t argue, situating himself backwards over Steve’s head. Steve took the opportunity to full on bury his face in Bucky’s ass, to feel it and enjoy it. The first swipe of his tongue was over soft cotton.

“No underwear. You were expecting to get lucky, huh?” Steve teased.

“Can’t blame a guy for hoping the man who already expressed explicit interest in having sex with you might actually have sex with you.”

“Mhmm.” Steve kept licking, until the cotton was soaked through and slightly sheer in appearance. The shorts were tight, but not so tight that Steve couldn’t wriggle them out of his way, pulling the material to the side to expose Bucky’s hole. It was invitingly pink—nothing like the few bits of porn Steve had sought out since he came hurtling into this century—no completely waxed, bleached to perfection skin.

Not that he minded the modern look (other than the sort of forced ubiquity of it all) or would’ve kicked Bucky out of bed for adhering to it, but this reminded Steve of where he came from. This was human and real. This was his first time at seventeen, his brief boyfriends at twenty and twenty-three, his wartime rendezvous. It was probably weird to say one of the few times Steve felt a reprieve from modern living since he woke up was while sliding his tongue across someone’s asshole, but well, life was like that sometimes.

And so Steve licked, flattening his tongue, then spearing it to run circles around and around, then flattening again. He laved at it. He teased at the inviting tightness of it, and he laved at it some more. And he was rewarded for all this effort, so beautifully rewarded, because Bucky’s moans were like music, singing directly to Steve’s soul by way of his dick.

He was gonna fuck this man. He was gonna fuck him and then he was gonna do his damnedest to date him. Let his life be a never-ending parade of tight shorts and crop tops and chin dimples and gray-blue and laughter. It was what he deserved, Bucky-willing.

“Steve, I cannot fit my hand into these shorts,” Bucky panted. “I need to-”

“Uh, these shorts, are they pretty easy to find?” Steve asked, replacing his tongue with his thumb and rubbing it in gentle circles.

“Yes?”

“This particular pair important to you?”

“Are you about to rip these shorts right off my body, Steve? Is that why you’re asking? Because having someone literally tear clothes off of me is a bit of a lifelong dream, but most clothes are-”

The rip cut Bucky off, his speech giving way to a shuddering breath while Steve literally tore the shorts apart at the seams, splitting them in half first, then shredding them up either side, the elastic band giving way with a quiet snap. Steve took a moment to toss the ruined cotton to the floor, then put his face right back into Bucky’s ass, his other hand reaching up and around to grip Bucky’s cock, giving it long root-to-tip strokes that matched the rhythm of his tongue.

“Fuck, that’s good.” Bucky moaned, rocking his hips over Steve’s face, both gyrating on his tongue and fucking into his hand. And the only thing missing was that Steve couldn’t see the lovely picture they had to be making. He could film them sometime if Bucky was okay with that. Modern life made making your own pictures ridiculously easy.

Then they could watch it back and fuck to it.

“Steve,” Bucky said, his voice pitching into the realm of debauched.

Steve hummed an answer right against his hole.

“Steve, stop.”

Steve dropped his hand and pulled his tongue back into his mouth. “You okay?”

“Very, just wanna change it up,” Bucky said, and Steve didn’t get the chance to ask how before Bucky moved off of his face. Kneeling over Steve’s chest, he leaned forward and slid his hand into the slot in Steve’s underwear, finding his cock and pulling it through. Then he took up a position on hand and knees, finding Steve’s erection with his tongue and his lips.

His mouth was so warm, so wet, so…

Steve groaned softly at the feeling of him sliding up and down and up again.

“Bucky,” he said reverently, and he felt Bucky’s answering hum in his bones.

From this angle, it took some physical effort to get his mouth back on Bucky, but that’s what government experiments were for. He was Captain America. He had the core strength to lean up and tongue-fuck Bucky’s ass all day.

So that’s what Steve did, wrapping his hands around Bucky’s thighs, feeling the softness of his flesh beneath his fingers. He was sloppier now, distracted by Bucky giving him without a doubt the best suck job he’d had in his life. He was also dirtier, pushing his tongue past the ring of muscles and licking in deep.

He was gonna put his dick in there at some point if Bucky would have him. But there was no rush. Didn’t even have to be today, though today would be a fantastic time to do it.

“Steve,” Bucky said hoarsely, his lips having just slid off the tip of Steve’s cock. “You have big, thick fingers. Mind using ‘em?”

“What’s the matter, Buck?” Steve asked. “You need something in you? Got a hungry little hole begging to be filled?”

In lieu of an answer, Bucky took Steve deep into his throat and held him there, his head bobbing just so. Steve groaned, taking several seconds to form another coherent sentence.

“Yeah? Because I can actually think of something better than fingers,” Steve said, even while he slathered one with sloppy amounts of spit and started to push it in. They’d need to stop soon if just for lubricant. Steve had learned a long time ago that spit only did so much for so long.

As soon as he found Bucky’s prostate, he zoned out a bit. Muscle memory took over from when he’d done this to others and to himself, his fingers massaging with perfect pressure while he focused on the perfect heat of Bucky’s mouth and throat.

It wasn’t until Bucky stopped altogether, resting his chest on Steve’s lower torso and his face on Steve’s hip, that Steve came back into awareness. Bucky was fucking back onto his fingers, letting out little noises that had the want in Steve’s veins spiking to dangerous levels.

“Let me fuck you,” Steve said. “Please.”

“Yeah,” Bucky whined. “Take my hole, Steve. You can have it. It’s yours.”

Steve moved Bucky off of him with very little effort and got up, taking the time to lean over and press their mouths together. He meant it to be a quick little kiss to make up for the fact that they hadn’t taken the time to kiss earlier, but Bucky latched on, his fingers tangling in Steve’s short blond hair and holding on. It was hot. Hot and needy and sloppy and perfect, and Steve kissed back with an honest fervor until Bucky let go, panting up at Steve from the bed.

“There’s lube in my bag,” Bucky said.

“I’ve got it,” Steve said. “Unless you have a preference for yours.”

Bucky didn’t answer. Instead he sat up and started working the crop top off while Steve rummaged in a canvas drugstore tote.

When he turned back, he found Bucky naked except for the socks.

“Oh bless you for leaving those on,” Steve said, pushing his now spit-soaked underwear down until they slid to the floor. He watched Bucky watch him stroke lube onto his cock, Bucky’s own hand migrating south to match Steve’s movements for several glorious eyefuck-filled seconds.

It was Bucky who broke the moment—probably for the best because Steve was completely lost on him already—turning over and placing a couple of hotel pillows under his chest, leaving his entire perfect ass up in the air, his socked feet just hanging off the edge of the bed. Steve couldn’t resist leaning over and getting one or two more licks in, trailing his tongue back and forth between Bucky’s hole and his balls.

He fingered more lube into Bucky, and then he joined him on the bed, wrapping one hand around Bucky’s fleshy hip, using the other to steady his cock while he started sliding inside.

He wasn’t gonna last long. Not after all that. But he had a pretty good suspicion Bucky wasn’t going to either.

A beautifully soft sigh met his ears when his hips pressed flush against Bucky’s skin.

“Turn your head to the side?” Steve asked, and Bucky did, his nearly-dry wavy hair resting behind his ear. His lips were delicately parted, Bucky’s breath coming out heavier than normal. Steve stared at those lips, slick and pink. He’d been inside of that pretty mouth. He’d kissed it and would kiss it again.

With that thought, Steve rocked his hips back slowly, then eased them forward.

“Doing okay?” he asked, watching Bucky’s face as he slid in and out.

“Uh-huh.” Bucky’s eyelids fluttered, his lips parting with a quiet moan.

Steve took that as a sign to keep going, both hands on Bucky’s hips now, pulling him back against him. He liked the slow as much as he liked the quick. Friction and orgasms were great and there was always a point where his need for them swallowed nearly everything else. But getting to watch himself disappear inch by inch into another person, being able to match that sight up to the sensations running through his nerve endings and lighting up his brain—there was something wonderfully filthy and momentous about that.

Even so, each thrust hit harder than the last, Steve forcing little whines and moans out of Bucky’s mouth, his own occasionally joining them in debauched harmony.

When Bucky started begging though, that’s when Steve was truly gone.

“Come on, Stevie, fuck me like you want to,” Bucky said, his words slurring together. “Use my tight hungry fuckhole. Please, Stevie. Fill me up with come. I know you wanna.”  
  
How was Steve ever supposed to stop his hips from snapping and thrusting and taking when he was faced with that?

“Buck, I’m gonna-” And he was. He was precariously close. “Do you need-”

But Bucky already had his right hand wrapped around himself, jerking his cock off in motions that shook his whole body.

Steve came first, throwing his head back with a gruff moan and emptying inside of Bucky with a series of erratic thrusts. He could’ve probably shot off a second time when he finally pulled out to the sight of his come running out of Bucky’s body and dripping onto the sheets.

Incidentally, that was when Bucky finished, Steve’s name on his lips right before he let go.

Steve stood at the end of the bed for a moment, watching Bucky pant through the very last of his orgasm, staring at his come-wet hole, and that’s when he knew he had to lean over again, to taste himself on Bucky’s skin.

“Oh my god,” Bucky whispered, but he didn’t object. Nor did he object when Steve pulled away and helped him onto his back, crawling up onto the bed next to him and kissing him softly on the temple.

“You,” Steve started, “are really something.”

Bucky responded by rolling onto his side and lazily making out with Steve for several minutes.

“Okay, I’m hot again. Go somewhere else,” Bucky said, wiping at his sweaty forehead with the back of his hand. Steve laughed, but he got up anyway, going to the bathroom instead for a cool, wet towel. He held it up like an offering upon return.

“Yeah,” Bucky said, letting his thighs part, but Steve started with his face, softly swiping the rag across his brow, his cheeks, and his neck. He did Bucky’s right arm next, all the way down to his fingertips.

“This okay?” Steve asked, running the towel across to his left shoulder.

“Yeah, just not past the tattoo—Nerve damage.”

“Got it.” Steve finished up the left arm, then wiped Bucky’s chest and belly. He skipped to his legs next, slowly peeling off the thigh highs and following them with the rag. He didn't move to wash between Bucky's thighs until he'd wiped clean everywhere else. “They have a pool by the way. Indoors," Steve said.

“You sure know how to treat a date, Stevie.”

“Is that what this is?” Steve asked, raising an eyebrow. Bucky frowned slightly, and Steve felt his stomach drop. “No, I mean, can it be? A date? The first of many? Dinner included to make it more official.”

“Is glorious sex really a good basis for a relationship, Steve?” Bucky asked, his brow furrowed.

“No, but feeling comfortable and at home with someone is,” Steve said, and Bucky’s face split into a grin, his skin going pink.

“Yeah, okay, it’s a date.” Bucky touched one cheek and then the other. “But I’m getting warm again so you need to go away.”

He smiled fondly at Steve while he said it.

Steve smiled back.

**Author's Note:**

> I shared this on Twitter recently, but I feel like anyone who writes Stucky might love these [timelines of sex terminology](https://io9.gizmodo.com/three-timelines-of-slang-terms-for-having-sex-from-135-1608522982) that I have used just so many times. 
> 
> Speaking of, here's my [Twitter](https://twitter.com/BiStarBucky/status/1215505796034895872?s=20) if you're into that. 
> 
> Here are some adorable [piccrews](https://twitter.com/BiStarBucky/status/1266117017414885381?s=20) I made of this Bucky.


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